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Saturday, January 30, 2016

If I’d known, thirty years ago, what I know now I’d have saved myself many head-pounding mornings staring at the bottom of a plastic bucket and hopefully this post might help you to wake up as fresh as a designated driver after a night where you’ve behaved more like a professional footballer at a long weekend barbecue.

1. Take an aspirin with half a glass of milk before you even start drinking. The aspirin puts a clamp on inflammation surrounding the grey, squidgy matter in your head and the milk puts a lining on your stomach. I accidentally discovered this trick one night when I took an aspirin for a mild toothache before I went out on the town. The tactic has never failed me since. It works for toothaches too.

2. I know it’s a pain in the neck, but drink as much water as you can. I drink room temperature water because you can chug it down really quickly and that way you can get to your next drink without too much delay.

3. You can mix white wine with red wine and follow it up with tequila, white rum, black rum or whiskey. It’s all alcohol and mixing drinks never made any difference to my pain levels the next day. It’s really the amount consumed that’s the killer. If I eat food before the second drink, it slows down the guzzling a bit.

Mind you, eating is cheating and it does kill the buzz.

4. If you’re like me, once you get the taste of the uninhibited silliness which accompanies the state of tipsiness, your brain tells you that to maintain this alcoholic euphoria you have to keep drinking.

It doesn’t really work that way because after the third or fourth drink, everything starts to go downhill. You lose the ability to say, She sells seashells by the seashore, and it comes out as, Shhhee thells shesells by the… oh just pith off and get me another wine.

You also feel as though you’re walking on a boat in a not-so-sheltered harbour. You repeat yourself when telling stories about your sex life which you really shouldn’t be sharing and you might start putting your arms around other people’s shoulders pretending you like them but really you’re just trying to maintain balance.

Now is the time to distract yourself from mindless chugging. Get up and dance if you can, go for a walk to the loo and strike up an interesting conversation. In other words, delay your next drink for as long as you can.

5. When you get home after a big night, these are the things you MUST do.

Clean your teeth, otherwise when you wake up in the morning it will feel as though someone has superglued your tongue to your hard palate.

Wash off heavy makeup so your eyes don’t stick together overnight and then when you wake up in the morning you panic and think you’ve gone blind, your eyeballs were pecked out by a vulture during the night or you’re dead and in hell.

Close your curtains/blinds so the sun doesn’t stream in at the crack of dawn exacerbating your headache, waking you prematurely and allowing all those cringe-worthy memories to creep in to your mind making you grab for your phone to check if you really did stand on the bar and perform a striptease to the band playing, ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’.

Put a huge glass of water on your bedside table. Drink it. Refill it. You don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and wind up hurtling down the stairs in darkness on your way to the kitchen.

6. If you do wake up feeling seedy, force down a glass of orange juice, eat some toast and sip on weak coffee. Go for a freezing cold shower making sure the icy water is concentrated on your head to reduce rampant swelling of the brain. (Some people say that swimming in the ocean cures a hangover. If you’re capable of driving to the ocean then you don’t really have a proper hangover in my books.)

7. Your liver will be screaming out for greasy food but it’s merely a cry for help from the withered organ. It’s desperately attempting to process the alcohol and thinks it needs fat to help it do its job. In reality, eating a burger and deep fried chips just means the little sucker will have to work harder. A large glass of cold chocolate milk usually satisfies my liver. Yours might be a tad more demanding.

8. This is an irresponsible, final piece of advice that medical authorities would probably get cranky about but it’s my desperation measure.

I find that fifty percent of a hangover is the result of a lack of sleep. I get jittery and prone to panic attacks when suffering a really disgraceful hangover and I can’t relax enough to take a nap. Sometimes I take a Mersyndol or two to render me unconscious for a few hours. I always wake up feeling relatively normal again.

The paracetamol most likely strains the liver but it gets rid of headaches and the codeine/ doxylamine succinate cocktail knocks me out cold.

It’s why Mersyndol has the word, Mercy, in its name.

Remember, the horror of most hangovers only lasts until five o’clock in the afternoon, a bit like a day at work. The agony will soon be over and just like the pain of giving birth, you’ll forget all about it.

Friday, January 29, 2016

One of my new year pledges to myself was to stop caring about what people think of me anymore, so when I was at a music trivia bingo night last week and the DJ asked who would sing, I Touch Myself, into the microphone for a free steak sandwich voucher, I put my hand up immediately.

I must have been pretty good because he gave me two free steak sandwich vouchers.

My friend, Nettie was a bit disparaging and said if she’d done it she would have stood up and suggestively rubbed her hands all over her body but since she didn’t even put her hand up to volunteer, I’m suspecting she wouldn’t have done anything of the sort.

I don’t eat steak but that doesn’t matter. I did it and felt no remorse. In fact it was fun… it was liberating to put aside my self-consciousness and vanity for the sake of a good time. Plus I was a tiny bit pissed.

I gave the steak sandwich vouchers to my starving, student son, Thaddeus when he came over this week. He needs them more than me.

Earlier in the month, I also instigated a petition which resulted in a newspaper interview, two television interviews and two radio interviews. It was an unexpected blur of disconcerting unreality.

Was I nervous? Hell yeah, but I pushed through it because I felt passionate about the issue.

I didn’t watch myself on the telly at all or read the article too closely because I knew I’d be too self-critical. I tried not to read the huge amount of criticism on some social media sites or in the paper either. What would be the point? I believe I’m right so the knockers can get stuffed.

Of course I don’t expect everyone to agree with me but to actively close ones ears to facts and common sense is cheating one’s self.

The petition has been presented to council. I highly doubt anything will come of it but at least I tried to make a difference and I learned something.

I learned who is truly there for me, supporting me… and who isn’t.

I also learned that there are a lot of closed minded, negative, fault-finding people out there.

So many people are too ready to jump on an issue without really examining it. “Grabbing the shitty end of things” is how one friend described it perfectly.

The experience has taught me to stop and think before I make judgments. I’ve learned to tease things apart before I reject them. I’ll try not to instantly jump into a critical, dismissive, default mode.

So that was my January and I think it’s a good start.

What will February bring?

If I’m lucky I’ll live to ninety years of age. That gives me roughly 416 months left to live.

I won’t be wasting any of them.

P.S. I don't think I'm a great spirit or anything but there are a lot of mediocre minds out there, don't you think?

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

We swim in our pool every afternoon because it’s 37 freakin degrees in the shade here in North Queensland and don’t go telling me how you’re hot because you furkin AREN’T.

My hair has taken the toll of all this aquatic action by drying out and developing split ends.

You could use the end of my ponytail to scour your fry pan after you’ve burnt bacon and cheese in the bottom of it., or use it as sandpaper on a particularly gnarled piece of granite, or use it to scrub out the stains on the tiles left by the blood of the air-conditioning mechanic who quoted you $1500 to fix the reverse cycle piece of shit a gecko just shorted out.

“Do you mind if I wear a shower cap in the pool to protect my hair, Scotto?” I asked my long-suffering husband the other day when we were about to take the plunge.

He shrugged, indicating a non-interest in what I wear on my head when we’re in the pool, so that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s really not at all attractive but not as constricting as a bathing cap and readily available.

We loll around in the pool staring at the sky from 5pm until about 6:30 when the news comes on, then we squidge inside with wet crotches, put on dry undies and settle in front of the telly.

I spied a couple of large birds in the sky yesterday when we were swimming.

“Are they hawks?” I asked the non-ornithological expert Scotto. It was a rhetorical question really.

“Yep,” he drawled. “Them’s be hawk birds.”

I heard a loud caw very similar to a crow. Exactly like a crow actually.

“No, Scotto, I think they’re crows, not hawks after all.” I said, tucking a tendril of hair back inside my floral shower cap.

“No, Pinky, those birds have scalloped wings like hawks. The crow sounds are coming from the west. Those birds are definitely hawks,” he drawled like John Wayne on pseudo-ephedrine.

One of the exact same birds as before flew past us again. “See!” he twanged like a cowboy lying shot dead in a pool of blood on a saloon floor. “That’s a crow! Its wings aren’t as scalloped as a hawk bird.”

“It’s the same furkin bird. you idiot!” I hooted. “It just went round the durn tree and came back agin!”

Monday, January 25, 2016

Scotto and I have been doing Pilates/Yoga exercises via Youtube videos every day for the last two weeks. The sessions only go for twenty to thirty minutes but they’re pretty damn intense. I told my friend, Nettie what we’d been doing when we went out to dinner with her the other night.

“Where are you doing it?” she asked me.

“In the bedroom, in front of the telly,” I shrugged, bolting a chip down my pie-hole.

“Oh, I see,” she used the sarcastic quotation mark gesture. “Bed Pilates… too much information, Pinky.”

“No… proper Pilates, on the bedroom floor,” I hissed, disgusted at her inference.

Scotto puts the computer screen on the TV (somehow) and we follow the instructions of a very vicious, sadistic, thin woman. There isn't much room so I end up with my head smashing into the wardrobe door frame.

The dogs join in and Pablo the Chihuahua is particularly good at the “Down Dog” which isn’t surprising when you think about it. Sometimes he licks my tortured, sweaty face halfway through a Reverse Twisted Locust and that’s not very nice because I can’t shoo him away and have to put up with his slimy tongue up my nostril.

Usually, I’m positioned behind Scotto so he can’t see when I’m cheating, but I can see him. He cheats a lot. He’s nowhere near as flexible as me. When I was a kid I could lie on my stomach and bend my legs over my shoulders so that my knees were either side of my ears (a Reverse Rabbit).

I could do the splits every which way too. I can’t do that now of course but I can still bend waist over and put my palms on the floor without bending my knees.

Scotto says I have long hammies but I don’t know if he’s being insulting or not.

Anyway, if my hammies are long, he must have short hammies. And you know what they say,

short hammies, short…. distance you can bend forward.

We usually complete our twenty minute session in our swimming togs. Don’t try to picture it. Bits of flesh cascade everywhere and there are carpet burns in unsavoury places; places you can’t normally see without a speculum, torch and whipper snipper.

My goal is to attain spiritual enlightenment by cracking the Wounded Peacock pose.

You do know the oldest yoga teacher in the world is 97, right?

That gives me forty-one years left to practise.

Namaste

(I'm pretty certain that means 'Happy Australia Day')

Ever tried yoga or pilates? Any tips?Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

“NOOOO way, Jose! I will not look after your incontinent, hyperactive Mogwai creature when we’re trying to sell our house and keep it clean!” was my immediate response when 22 year old son and his girlfriend, Meggles, asked us to look after their baby Chihuahua for EIGHT DAYS while they went schmoozing in Bali. “It pees everywhere and our dogs hate its guts! There'll be non-stop growling and snapping.”

“Yes of course I'll look after it! I love it to death. Give it NOW!” were the words that actually came out of my mouth.

So there we were, grinning like a pair of duped fools as we clutched the wriggling, diminutive, spotted weasel and waved Hagar’s ute goodbye after taking possession of a large bag of dried food, a collar and leash and a wee pad.

“There are three rules for looking after Mogwai’” Scotto hissed a warning between gritted teeth after Hagar’s exhaust fumes had dissipated.

1. Don't put it near light, especially sunlight, it could kill it.

2. Don't let it get wet with water nor give it any water to drink nor bathe it.

3. No matter how much it cries or begs, NEVER feed it after midnight.

“Let’s take it for a walk in the sunlight to kill it or at the least, wear it out,” I suggested after the Mogwai wouldn’t stop humping my Chihuahua, Pablo, nonstop for six hours. There’d also been at least ten, life threatening altercations where the Mogwai’s throat was in danger of being unceremoniously ripped out by my fox terrier.

Leesten up, you leetle sheet!

The walk did not tire the Mogwai out in the least. The sunlight didn’t kill it either.

“Let’s take it for a swim!” I shouted a bit louder than necessary after the Mogwai pooed in the washing basket.

Never put a Mogwai in water!

That didn’t kill it or tire it out either. It didn’t make it multiply either, despite the urban legends. It did smell horrible afterwards though… like a wet ball of something you might find in a hospital bin.

“Let’s give it a really, excessively big dinner, late at night to fill it up and make it sleepy!” I screamed in hysteria after the Mogwai kept squeaking it's new chicken toy during the movie.

But no… the Mogwai was still bursting at the seams with an unnatural nuclear-type energy after its huge, midnight snack.

“Try rocking it to sleep,” I sighed. “Do your Nana-Rock thing, Scotto. What do we have to lose?” My mouth was twitching and I was at the end of my tether.

The Mogwai’s eyelids began to droop as Scotto rocked it back and forward. He had the Nana touch after all.

“Sit down gently on the couch and see what happens,” I whispered, taking care not to awaken the evil creature. "But don't make any sudden moves."

The Mogwai’s eyes gradually closed. The Mogwai was asleep at last.

We were free from its evil presence until daylight. Or at least we hoped we were…

So the new rule for Mogweegian minders is this; the Mogwai were created to be able to survive in almost every environment. Adapt to their desires or be subjected to their wrath.

Friday, January 15, 2016

The petition I instigated asking our council to get behind a push for nightclubs/pubs to install Soft Fall in (suggested) ten metre square areas at the front of their premises to protect innocent victims from the ramifications of coward punches drew a mixed review in the media.

Link to newspaper story.It was a mix of 98% of people thinking it’s an idiotic idea and 2% thinking it’s a brilliant idea.

Very disappointing really.Before you read more comments just click on this link! Believe me, it's very interesting...Wall Street Journal Article

But I read the comments on the local radio station’s Facebook page and it struck me that not one person offered a new or possibly helpful solution.

There was plenty of “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, bro” and “Why do people punch?” and “Bring in harsher laws to scare people from delivering coward punches,” (not exactly a new concept) but not one person said anything new or helpful.

They were quite ready to ridicule anyone else’s idea but lacking in any truly intellectually creative resources themselves.

Normally I’m a bit testy when people argue with me. I can go from relaxing aromatic, herbal candle, to flaming, unpredictable, cranky Catherine Wheel in about two seconds.

But after reading these negative, sarky comments I just felt disappointed; deflated that nobody had suggested anything beneficial to add to the discussion.

It’s all very well to stand on your precious iPhone and scream, “Bring in harsher penalties, you dickheads!” But ‘they’ have been trying to do that for bloody ages and seriously, is it feasible to think some iced up, drunken bogan is going to lose his temper and suddenly stop mid punch and think, “Duh… hang on, it used to be a minimal sentence and now there’s a mandatory sentence of … like ten years, so maybe I shouldn’t hit this fella.”?

Besides, a minimum sentence won’t bring back the dead. It will be too late.

Then, some people suggested that it was turning the nightclub zone into a playground. Yeah… and… what else have you got? If people are staggering around like two year olds wanting to smash a toy truck in someone’s face then maybe that’s what’s needed. What’s the problem?

“Who’s payin for it?” was another common theme. Well… I reckon if I can erect a $1500 pool fence to protect non-existent toddlers from falling into my swimming pool, then a nightclub whose livelihood depends on getting peeps off their fudging faces at $9 bucks a rum and coke, can afford $1500 worth of Soft Fall in front of their premises to protect their patrons. Maybe they could all chip in to have it installed in the taxi rank closest to them as well.

There was a lot of carry on mocking the idea because it seems like bubble-wrapping society. You know… “What are you going to do? Put cotton wool, unicorns and rainbows all over the world? Oooh, let’s make everyone wear bike helmets when they go out!”

Well let me tell you… seventy percent of these atrocious attacks on innocent people occur in or JUST OUTSIDE the establishment. One Punch Can Kill link.

I was never advocating putting down Soft Fall on every surface in the WORLD… just the immediate hotspots where 70% of incidents generally go down. Like… outside of nightclubs where people are drunk and milling in angry throngs.

OF COURSE it won’t protect everyone. But even if ONE life is not cut short… isn’t that enough?

There have been THREE coward punch assaults in the last TWO weeks in Queensland. One was fatal.

All I can say is that if someone has a better short term solution then bring it on. Tell us please.

Just don’t write shit like… ‘Well that’s stupid’, if you don’t have anything better to bring to the table.

It makes you look… unhelpful.

Come and help us save a life. Sign the petition so we can take it to council and try at least to do something constructive.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Scotto and I were watching a show on the telly where a kid refused to leave the cinema after the movie ended because he was waiting for his hero to come back to life. The cinema was empty except for him and his Dad.

“That’s like me and you when you make me sit and wait for the blooper outtakes to movies. The outtakes that never come,” I commented in a dry snarky tone. “It’s bloody embarrassing.”

“No,” he jovially replied. “Fifty per cent of the time they do end up showing outtakes.”

“Once they did,” I sniffed. “Once, about seven years ago, I think.”

“Fifty per cent of the time,” he snapped confidently. “Fifty per cent of the time they show them.”

“Once,” I sighed. “Once, they actually did.”

“Fifty per cent,” he exhaled, leaning over to pat the dog in a dismissive manner.

“Once,” I said quietly, with my head turned away towards the wall so he couldn't see my lips move.

“Fifty per cent,” he said, whilst badly attempting to disguise it with a cough.

Monday, January 11, 2016

As a mother of five children between the ages of 19 and 26 (4 of them boys), I find myself worrying about their safety every Friday and Saturday night when I suspect they’ve gone out on the town as most people their age would. I feel sickened every time I read or hear about young men and women struck down in the prime of their life by a coward punch when they’re out enjoying themselves. Do you worry? I dread hearing the phone ringing in the middle of the night. I jump when it rings before seven o'clock in the morning. (Stop ringing me so early, Dad!)

Do you think you'll worry when your five year old gets to this age because believe me, it will happen very quickly.

Before you know it, the evils you anticipated from the playground bully will become much, much grimmer. The bully will be much more dangerous.

Whilst there are clever advertising campaigns educating young people about the dangers of this random type of violence, I’m afraid it doesn’t seem to be working. The problem is that when the perpetrators of these crimes are fuelled up on ice/drugs, steroids or alcohol, the advertising campaign is probably not at the forefront of their minds.

My idea of petitioning the council was to start a conversation about instigating some type of legislation so that the onus is perhaps placed on the proprietors of night clubs and other hot spots to reinforce the safety of their patrons by laying down Soft Fall in the immediate vicinity where intoxicated people are lining up to gain entrance, being refused entry, leaving after drinking for hours and where fights and arguments often start.

Can you imagine if every night club in your area was mandated to put up a mere ten metre square of Soft Fall, how much it would actually cover? Gosh, they have it in aged care facilities, childcare centres and golf clubs for the patron's protection; surely swaying, drunken idiots warrant some protection? It may even reduce their insurance premiums.

And it’s not only the victims of coward punches who’d be afforded some protection. A vast number of scuffles and altercations occur in the area surrounding the entrances of these establishments; altercations where the police are attacked and even bouncers. I must also add that it's not just young people targetted in these random, violent attacks. Plenty of older people are assaulted as well.

It just seems like a sensible all round safeguard to me to have Soft Fall in places where crowds of people are drunk, off their faces, unco-ordinated and severely lacking in balancing skills and often very unreasonable and fudging ANGRY.

It seems as though the worst of the injuries inflicted occur, not so much from the actual punch, but from the impact when the victims hit the concrete footpath. You only have to watch the video of the young mother who suffered a coward punch in Mt Isa last weekend, just outside the entrance, to see how she sustained her skull injuries.

"The young men wheeled in before the neurosurgeon at the Royal Melbourne Hospital have often suffered two blows to the head.

The first is from the punch itself, the second they received when their head smashed against the hard ground. ''That second blow is often more devastating,'' The Age

There are two major factors that cause the really serious brain injuries. It is usually not the initial punch or blow, as the face and skull can adequately protect the brain from a punch – even a so-called king hit.

However, if that punch renders someone unconscious, then it is the uncontrolled fall from the standing position and the head hitting the concrete or gutter that is where the serious brain injuries occur.

Whilst laying down Soft Fall around nightclub entrances and thoroughfares may seem like implementing a ‘nanny system’ for want of a better term, and people may argue that young adults should be responsible for their own safety, the fact is that legislation was passed ensuring bike riders wear helmets and drivers wear seat belts. There is legislation to ensure our pools are adequately fenced and that the council puts up barriers to stop people accidentally falling off bridges etc. If that soft fall even stops one death wouldn’t it make it worth it? Wouldn't it?

When you think how many people just one young death affects, from parents, friends and families to the police, the paramedics, the doctors, the nurses… I think even one less death would make it worthwhile.

Punishment in the form of mandatory sentences is an excellent idea but it won’t bring those young boys who lost their lives back, will it?

We need to do as much as possible to prevent it happening in the first place.

As a parent, I can’t think of anything worse than seeing a police car pull up and park in my drive way at two o’clock in the morning. I know what my first fear would be. It wouldn’t be good news, would it? And it could happen to anyone, anytime. It could happen to you and your loved ones.

Naturally, I’ve discussed this with my own kids and expressed my fears. I think most parents have, but there’s not much you can do to protect your kids when most of these coward punches are thrown by surprise or from behind on unwary, innocent victims.

I’m not a politician, I’m not a medical expert and I’m not a law enforcement officer, I’m just a worried mother.

Educating children from the early years up is a great long term plan but something needs to be done for the short term outlook.

Friday, January 8, 2016

“I’ll only watch it if nobody gets their head cut off, dies a gruesome death or spews blood,” I warned Scotto when we were about to watch an Australian movie called, Last Cab to Darwin this arvo.

We’d been watching the entire series Game of Thrones for the second time over the last two weeks, followed up by Tarantino’s Eight Ugly Somethings and Inglourious Basterds and frankly I was sick of seeing people having their buzz cuts scalped, their ball sacks impaled and their tongues ripped out of their throats by force… not that you could have your tongue ripped out willingly or without a certain amount of force… but I am getting off the subject.

(N.B. I didn’t say ‘But I digress’ because I fudging hate that overused idiom. What? Do people honestly think they sound intelligent because they say, “But I digress’? I fudging hate that.)

Anyway, I’m off topic.

We were one quarter of the way through the seemingly innocent, bland movie about a guy on a journey( another word I hate) to euthanise himself in the Northern Territory, when out of the blue… he spews blood.

“YOU PROMISED ME!” I screeched at Scotto. “YOU SAID NOBODY WOULD SPEW BLOOD!”

I hate blood emanating from mouths whether it be from gunshots, falling from a high building, a sword through the gullet, poison, or even from a broken tooth or diseased gums.

I think it originates from reading Little Women at twelve years of age and one of them, Beth I think, coughed up blood and promptly carked it. I cried. Oh, how I cried, and I’ve been terrified of coughing (let alone spewing) up blood ever since.

It’s my Auntie Caroline’s fault. She should never have sent me such a gory novel at the highly impressionable age of twelve.

The movie was very good despite the blood soaked spew which actually happened three times in the movie.

The young aboriginal actor, Mark Coles Smith delivered the best performance. He was deadly.

You should watch it. Despite the blood streaked vomit it was brilliant. Aussie movies rock.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

In regards to the story about the journalist who was ‘insulted’ by the cricketer, (laughing out loud... a cricketer, no less, hardly the bastion of human sensitivity) and then the story about the politician who insulted the public servant by kissing her on the cheek in a bar and the aftermath with the dumb text sent by another politician to a female journalist calling her a f#cking witch, I can’t restrain my social media suicidal tendencies and I suspect I am about to lose a lot of followers and upset some people.

My mother’s reaction to the explosive story was the best I heard.

“Why didn’t she tell him he was uglier than a hat full of arseholes and she wouldn’t have a bar of him because he was old and ugly and embarrass him publically? These young girls need to stick up for themselves.”

I had to think about it for a while but after some consideration I think my 75 year old’s mother’s sentiments are correct.

If we, as united, empowered women, go around whinging about how down-trodden we’ve been for centuries and crack a sook act every time someone crosses the line then what are we but a bunch of whistle-blowing girlie-girls?

If we want respect as women we have to stop the bloody whining. Stand up for yourself girls!

I had a guy come up in a bar to me once and ask me. “Are those tits real?”

I answered, “Yes. Is your dick real?”

He staggered away like the stunned Neanderthal fuckwit that he was. Was I upset? A bit. But at least I got him back.

I realise it’s all very well to be saying what so and so should have done when a more powerful man put the weights on her… but honestly, even in the eighties when I was confronted by CEOs at the company I worked for, who made certain suggestions, I merely told the sleazy old fudgers to sod off.

Nicely of course, because that’s the way I was brought up, nice… but not a fudging dumb idiot who couldn’t stick up for herself.

Of course, as women, we do have to put up with a lot of shit, but you know what? For every areshole man out there, there are many, many good ones (excluding politicians). Instead of seeking sympathy on social media and getting all huffy about it, do as my septuagenarian mother suggested… give them back two times what they gave you.

Sort of like in the school playground really.

And surely, if we all give it back to them they'll eventually learn?

True empowerment doesn’t come from crying poor and acting all helpless and downtrodden, it comes from showing your true colours and bloody well giving back twice what you received.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

The first was to take vitamin D for my possible self-diagnosed osteoporosis, the second was to start pulling coconut oil and the third was to eat three dates a day.

“Why don’t they make transparent bottles for tablets?” I whinged to Scotto when I was buying the vitamins from the chemist. “I can’t tell how fudging big the mongrels are.” I shook the bottle. “They sound small, let’s take the risk.”

“How can they sound small?” Scotto asked.

“I don’t know… they just sound small enough to swallow. More room in the bottle or something,” I replied sagely.

Sure enough, when I opened the bottle after I’d paid for the fudgers, they were the size of Brazil nuts. I managed to swig them down for three days in a row (bloody huge mofos as they were) but five minutes after I’d gag them down, I’d feel extremely nauseated, so that was the end of that, #1 resolution… gawn. How can vitamins make you feel sick?

The funny thing is, I fell down the stairs (looking at my phone instead of where I was going) yesterday and didn’t break a single bone so I don’t think I do have osteoporosis anyway. It hurt a lot but strangely I didn’t even bruise. Maybe I’m a super human and the superhero gods haven't told me yet.

The coconut oil pulling is very interesting. It requires you to swish a tablespoon of the oil in your mouth for twenty minutes straight (no swallowing). The oil draws all the toxic bacteria out of your gums so you DEFINITELY can’t swallow it or you'll ingest your own filth.

Even though it sounds easy, believe me it’s not. The saliva builds up in your mouth so rapidly, before you know it your mouth is inflated like a puffer fish and all you want to do is spit it out all over the cat, but my gums are in a sad state of affairs and I’m determined to self-heal them.

I was five minutes into a session of pulling this morning when the mailman arrived with a beep-beep in the driveway and a parcel for Scotto.

“Fmmmmck!” I uttered in exasperation.

I didn’t want to spit it out and have to start all over again so I answered the door and hoped like hell I could bluff my way through.

“Is this Mr. Scotto Poinker’s house?” the jolly man asked, holding out a pen and little screen he was about to give me to sign.

“Mmm mmm,” I replied, nodding my head in a relatively normal manner.

“And what’s your name, luv?”

“Mmm hahn awk,” I replied with my chin up in the air so the toxic oil didn’t slobber out and with my eyes bulging out their sockets.

“Of course,” he stammered, handing me the pen and screen thing, then nervously taking a step back and wiping his hands on his pants. “Sorry, my hands are dirty. I just had to change a tyre.”

“Mmm mmmm glmm mmm,” I replied sympathetically, knowing in my heart he just didn't want to catch what ever I was afflicted with.

“Is anyone looking after you, love?” he asked.

I nodded emphatically, oily drool dribbling from the corners of my mouth. "Mmmmmmm!"

I wonder what he thought was wrong with me? Mentally impaired? Psychotic? Mute? I guess I’ll never know but I waved to him in a cordial, almost royal fashion as he screeched back down our driveway.

The three dates a day thing is going pretty well, even though they look like plump cockroaches, they’re quite tasty. I’m taking them for the iron and potassium not for their laxative effect. I have no worries in that department you’ll be happy to know. My toileting expeditions last about twenty seconds and Scotto gets very jealous of me, especially when I emerge almost as soon as I’ve entered and boast about how I just lost two kilos.

“But how?” he’ll stare at me in bewilderment and envy. “How is that even possible?”“I know!” I skite unashamedly. “I’m pretty good at it aren’t I?” Then I do a little triumphant dance in the ensuite.

I put it down to the fact that we weren’t given any rubbish when we were kids. If we wanted something sweet we were directed to the packet of prunes/dates/dried apricots in the fridge.

Not that it’s something one should necessarily be proud of but sometimes you have to recognise your talents wherever they lie.

There you have it. I’ve stuck to two out of three of my resolutions and I’m very proud of myself. What about you?

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